Watt. Until she met the woman. She was twenty-one and
looked somehow younger and ten years older all at once. She
was curvy, deliciously curvy. Her beauty was something a
person could just sit and stare at.
Or lose hours of their life bent over spreadsheets thinking
about.
Claire pushed open the heavy wood door to the kitchen,
since the laughter was loudest there. One of the main selling
features of the house had been the expansive kitchen and
dining room, and she’d worked her own magic. The place was
something that any chef from anywhere in the world would be
happy to come and cook at.
She was well
trained, and it had once been her dream to
cook and own her own five-star establishment. Those dreams
died a hard death, squashed under Robert’s boot, or more
accurately, his ambition and greed. She hadn’t set foot in a
kitchen since, not even her own. Alright, so she’d set foot, but
she hadn’t done more than cook the basics. Raiding the fridge
didn’t count. She employed someone else to cook for her and
paid well, even though she required nothing fancy. Most
nights, a sandwich would have been good enough for her.
Jean was a wiry man, originally from France. Everything
about him was strung tight. He was long and lanky, with silver
hair that was thick and always stood out at all the wrong
angles. He had a mustache but no beard, a big silver thing that
matched his hair and was just as wayward. In his early fifties,
Jean was a good man, even if he wasn’t a very decent cook.
His food was passable, and Claire would never inform him
otherwise.